


Bed Rest

by akire_yta



Series: prompt ficlets [528]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 22:45:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13397859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akire_yta/pseuds/akire_yta
Summary: pomrania askedPrompt: all members of the Leverage crew have each successfully run a job from their hospital bed. (Eliot's hospital bed happened to not be in a hospital, but it still counts.)





	Bed Rest

Parker disliked hospitals; the smell, the distant beeping, the blank way the staff looked at you, another body messing up their clean white sheets.  But the hospital board had the best collection of modern art lining their walls, even as the nurses stretched IVs and stents to make them last.  Visitors hours were too short for what she needed, so she moaned and groaned until they found her a bed.

Right above her pillow was the main air vent.  Parker smiled and counted the footsteps of the nurses on their hourly round.  Sometimes it was like the universe wanted her to take nice things.

 * * *

Hardison winced, feeling the pull of the staples in his side.  Appendixes.  What were they good for, anyway?

The orderly had made him put his laptop away, unhappy with the hunch of Hardison’s spine over the keyboard.  So all that was left was to count his pulse in the throbbing wound and watch his ward watch the baffling telenovela on the crappy TV bolted to the corner.

Hardison was just beginning to have opinions of how Phillipe was treating Anna when, out of the corner of his eye, Hardison noticed a junior doctor have a whispered hallway conversation with a janitor, passing him a package that was immediately whisked out of sight into a pocket on the old guy’s overalls.

“Oh he- _lllo,”_ Hardison purred, watching the doctor walk suspiciously over to the nurses station. 

 * * *

The cot was sagging in the middle, the ratty canvas almost giving way under Eliot’s weight.  “This the guy?”  Eliot wondered what was it about Columbian warlords that meant their moustaches were all so greasy.  The moustache in question twitched again.  “This guy, he don’t look so scary.”

Eliot breathed in through his nose, putting the pain to one side to be dealt with later.  “I will ask one last time.  Hand over the package.  Please.”

That got him a laugh, the warlord’s body guard relaxed, AK’s strapped easily to their chests.  Wrong weapon for such a confined space, Eliot thought almost absently, counting two pistols and a semi-automatic between them.  Probably no hidden holsters.  These guys liked the swagger of bullets and bling.  “Hey, you’re a funny guy.  Polite, too.  Let me be impolite.”  The finger jabbed into Eliot’s shoulder, probably aiming for the bullet hole but missing by a good inch.  “It’s mine.  And you don’t look in any state to take it from me.”

Eliot smiled.

The smell of cordite hung in the air when he flopped back onto the groaning camp cot, and above him, stray bullets had knocked loose more than a little plaster dust.  The package was a reassuring weight resting on his thigh.  Eliot coughed, wincing against the pull on battered ribs.  He glanced around, but no-one, especially not the target, was going to be getting up again.

He could afford to deal with that pain now.


End file.
